


i think we were cursed from the start (second i let you into my heart)

by badmeetsevil



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Flashbacks, M/M, Reuniting, will dies in this but it's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23490688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badmeetsevil/pseuds/badmeetsevil
Summary: He hopes this is heaven.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	i think we were cursed from the start (second i let you into my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: graphic death, descriptions of blood
> 
> did i just write the softest fic of my career? yes. did i cry while writing this? also yes. fuck you two sides of a coin baby i wrote this bitch SO FAST it was like boom boom boom and i LOVE IT
> 
> title from heaven by pvris

Will wakes up to a white light. The light doesn’t hurt his eyes, but he shields himself from it anyway and tries to recall where he is. 

One free hand reaches backwards, calloused fingers brushing against stubborn old oak, nails scratching against it, and the white light slowly begins to die out. It makes its way for old trees, grass that has died but is growing back, and yellow flowers that are in bloom. Will’s hand removes from his eyes, and he reaches out to carrass a flower between his fingers, to feel its soft petals. 

Will uses this to concentrate while he thinks.

_An explosion went off near him, practically right on top of him, and he’s on the fucking ground._

_Lance Corporal Schofield shouted when he hit the dirt, men ran to the right of him, to the left of him, even over him, like he’s not even there. He always expected this to happen, he just never expected it to be so soon._

_It was only a few weeks after he delievered the message to the 2nd, after he met Joe, after he lost Blake. He saved a lot of men that day, not sixteen hundred, but a lot of men. He still feels bad for the men he couldn’t save, prayed for them every night that he could, prayed for the woman and the child in Ecoust, prayed for Blake._

_Now, he’s on the ground, blood pouring out of him, and he can’t even hear his own pain over the sounds of shouting, screaming, gun fire, and explosions. He reached inside of his jacket, to retrieve the bandages he had left, and kept them furled together, to try to stop the bleeding. But when he presses down and forward towards his leg, there’s nothing there for him to press onto._

_It’s been blown off._

_He can feel his heartbeat behind his eyes, as panic slowly sets in. He always knew he would be set to die in battle, die for this stupid fucking war. He always imagined it would be starvation, or at the very least a shot to the head. Blood loss. Fucking hell. How very specific, how fucking familiar._

_He laid back, tried to relax. He knew from experience that it won’t be long now._

_He imagines the letter his wife will get, stamped with his superior’s name, non-personal, like he was barely there. “It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received from the War Office notifying the death of Lance Corporal William Schofield,” he imagines it reading in his mind. He imagines her face when she recieves the letter from the postman, wondering if it is finally, finally a letter from him, telling her of his days. He imagines how she drops the letter when she opens it, when she finally realizes what it is._

_He loves her so much, she loves him, they’re best friends until death, not lovers, but they love each other immensely. They keep each other safe, sound, and protected. He loves their daughters more than life itself._

_God, the girls._

_He can’t imagine how she’ll tell the girls, or if she’ll tell the girls. He can’t imagine her sitting them down, telling them that daddy’s not coming home this time. He thinks she won’t, that the girls will just sit by the door long after he’s gone and wait, wait for him to come back, wait for him to pick one of them up in his arms, to spin them, to hug their mother like he’s never going to see her again. He can’t imagine one of them, likely his oldest girl, his bright little Maggie, going up to her mother, asking in a gentle voice when daddy is supposed to be back._

_He can’t imagine it, so he doesn’t. At least, he tried not to._

_He can’t tell if his heartbeat has slowed down or has sped up._

_He hopes heaven is nice. He hopes Blake is there. That would be enough._

_His vision blacks out._

He always thought when you died you were supposed to see a white light, to see whatever God you believed in reaching out to you, or to see your family. None of that happened, he simply blacked out, and all pain went with it. He pats his chest, to go for his tin, to find the photo, but there’s nothing there. There’s no pocket, he’s not even in his uniform anymore. His fingers catch on the thread of a sweater, the green one he wore on market runs with his wife. He pulls at it a little, and it gives way, following his fingers as he pulls the thread off of the breast of the sweater. 

He hopes this is heaven.

Will looks down at himself, with his back resting against the tree, like he’s just woken up from a nap. He has both of his legs, they fill into his best fitting black trousers and he instinctively reaches down to touch it, to see if it’s actually there or not or maybe he’s still bleeding out on the battlefield and this is just a vision. But, he touches it, and his hand doesn’t fall through like he expects it to. His hands have no wartime scars on them, no reminders of the men he has killed or the men who have tried to kill him or the war that has tried to put innocent men in the ground. It’s like it never happened. 

He stands up, dusts the dirt off of his trousers, and looks around. His fingers go back to the tree, to keep a hold of, like he could float away if he were to let go. He looks around the tree, around at his surroundings. It’s familar, and he doesn’t feel alone. He stands up straight, listens to the sounds of the birds flocking into the leaves, watches honey bees float from flower to flower, hears the gentle whistles of an early morning breeze. 

It’s peaceful, for the first time in a long time, it feels peaceful. 

There’s shuffling in the background, and Will doesn’t react to it, it doesn’t frighten him. He feels relaxed, like he could slump back against the tree and nap there. He could feel the sun on his face and dream about seeing his daughters again and about his best friend and about Blake, about the things in his life that he will truly miss. 

The shuffling comes to a stop. And there’s a voice. 

“Scho?”

Will practically freezes at the mention of his name, the soft voice that he will remember until the end of time, that voice that is always pleasant, so loving and sweet like golden syrup. He turns slowly, and is caught with an eyeful. Tom Blake stands there, in a white button-up shirt that’s a little too big for him and black suspenders, holding his trousers securely around his waist. The button-up is half tucked into his trousers, like he’s been working for a few hours, and the other half threatens to become untucked. His soft curls stick to his forehead, and God, Will can only imagine looking into his big baby blues again. 

He’s so elegant. 

“Scho!” 

Tom has nothing in his arms but he would drop the entire world to run to Will again. Will can already feel tears in his eyes when Tom is halfway to him, and is fully crying when Tom jumps onto him, wraps his arms around his neck and presses his face into the skin there. Hot tears catch onto the wool of the collar of Will’s sweater, and Will’s arms wrap around him, pulling him closer, if that’s even possible, picking him up off the ground a little bit. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Will whispers, an almost silent confession of love, nuzzling his face into Tom’s hair, breathing deeply when he smells like apples and not like gunpowder. He’s the Tom from back home, the Tom from the farm, not the Tom that the war forced him to be. 

“I never thought it would be so soon,” Tom’s voice tickles against Will’s neck, but Will can’t bring himself to let go. He’s afraid to lose him again. “I thought you would’ve had more time.”

Tom lowers himself back onto the grass, feet firmly planted, arms still around Will’s neck. Will’s hands rest gently at Tom’s waist, and Tom goes and buries his head against Will’s check. “I thought you would go home, see your family, I thought you would make it out,” Tom tells him, hands playing with the soft hairs at the nape of Will’s neck, “I’m sorry.” 

Will moves a hand up from Tom’s waist to his shoulder, and places enough pressure on it to push him forward a little, to pick his head up off of his chest, and his fingers go to grip his chin. He lifts his chin upward, to look at him, to look at those beautiful baby blues that he never thought he’d get to see again. He wishes he were back home with his daughters, with his best friend, with Tom, yes, of course. He wishes they were all together, he wishes they could be one big family, war be damned, he wishes they just ran away together, ran away back home. 

But if this is all he can get, he will wait. 

He holds Tom’s head in place when he leans forward to kiss him. Tom still meets him halfway, stands on his toes a little to kiss him faster. Tom tastes like mint and apple and everything good and sweet in the world. He’s everything good in the world. He’s long walks on Sunday mornings with the love of your life on your arm. He’s waking up every morning caked in golden sunlight in a comfortable bed. He’s eating a full meal after a long day. He’s the little things that make life worth living.

He’s heaven.

Heaven is nice. Blake is there. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> will and his wife are mlm and wlw solidarity in this shes a lesbian and he's gay and theyre best fucking friends okay i tried to express that and honestly it might not have been my greatest but i love this fic and how it came out woo!!


End file.
